


arrowhead

by dansunedisco



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Arya Returns, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Comfort/Angst, Crushes, Deaf Character, Drabble Collection, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Modern Era, POV Outsider, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt, White Walker!Sansa, White Walkers, Young!Sansa & Young!Jon, direwolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-07-23 22:27:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 19,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7482330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of my Jon/Sansa Tumblr prompt fills. Each chapter is a self-contained, complete fic.</p><p>-</p><p>Chapter 29: Ran away to Essos together AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Canon Compliant - Sansa makes Jon clothes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked for: "Sansa is making Jon new clothes. She needs to measure him first. Things get uncomfortable."
> 
> Warnings: canon-typical violence, mild angst.

Jon lifts his arms just so, enough that a sliver of his pale skin peeks through his ill-fitted undershirt, and Sansa gasps. Her hands dart out before she has a mind to stop them, and she’s already halfway untied his shirt laces before the thought of inappropriate familiarity crosses her mind-- by then, however, the true extent of what caught her attention in the first place is revealed, and she doesn’t care if all of Winterfell sees her desperately tugging at Jon’s shirt. _His chest,_ she thinks, her gaze skipping between the cuts. Stab wounds. Killing blows. She’s seen enough of them to know-- to know Jon should not be standing in front of her as he does now. She presses trembling fingertips to the skin above his heart, the world _impossible_ looping in her mind. She shivers suddenly, the memory of a night not so long ago when she woke in the middle of the night to the feeling of terrible, black dread overcoming her.

“Sansa--” he breathes, sad and resigned, and she swallows back a sob. He told her of the battle at Hardhome, the frantic fleeing of the wildlings, the betrayal by a handful of his brothers-- but he did not tell her this.

“Who did this to you?” she asks; _the death, the resurrection?_

He looks away, and she sees his throat work, his jaw clench. “Doesn’t matter now.”

 _Good_ , she thinks. He isn’t the only protector, between them. She would’ve dropped a sword on their necks herself, if he hadn’t already, and then gone to all corners of Westeros to bring him back. She straightens at the morbid thought and dabs at the corners of her eyes, realizing with mild embarrassment that Jon’s shirt is still open down the front, and she’s been crying at him the entire time. “Sorry,” she says, fluttering her hand towards him. 

“It’s fine,” he replies, “um, did you still want to take--”

She fumbles for the measuring tape in her pocket, and brandishes it between them with a wry smile. Just like that, the spell of sadness breaks like thin ice underfoot. “Didn’t think you were getting out of this one, did you?”

He sighs, like he’s terribly put-upon and not wearing the overcoat she made him everywhere he goes, and waves her closer with a dejected, “Alright, alright, get on with it.”

It takes her a full week to complete the jerkin. She works her fingers to the bone, day and night, until the wolf crest matching her own is etched into the neck of the leather. On the seventh day, she presents Jon with her handiwork, and watches as he traces each and every stitch with reverent fingers. The smile he graces her with is thanks enough, brighter than a spring morning after the long winter; better yet, it feels like home.


	2. Canon Compliant - Sansa gives Ghost a bath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked for: "Sansa trying to give Ghost a bath. Jon laughs, she ends up calling Ghost Lady by accident and it ends with her telling him what happened to her direwolf."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am literal garbage who doesn't follow prompts 100% but this is close enough??

Sansa wakes to a soft _woof_ and a familiar, damp nose nuzzling against her hand. She smiles, skating on the edge of a pleasant dream, and reaches out to run her hand along Lady’s scruff.

It’s as her fingers tangle into fur that she snaps awake, heart hammering in her chest as new hope and old grief wash over her: Lady’s been dead for so long, but, for one brief moment, she was warm under her furs, thirteen and so _naive_ ; her mother and father were down the hall in the Lord’s chambers, the laughter of her brothers and sister echoed through Winterfell’s halls, and all was right in the world. A dream. No, her companion this morning is only Ghost, looking up at her with haunting his red eyes. She pushes up onto her elbow. They stare at one another; two wolves reunited.

Had he missed her? _I missed you_ , she thinks, _dearly._ Sometimes, when the worst of it was happening-- when she was _surviving--_ she imagined being rescued; Ghost and Jon both, bursting through the gates of Winterfell to steal her away from her captors. In these fantasies, he always wielded Ice.

She sighs. Ghost gives an answering huff. Of course, that is when she notices the puddle of melted snow around his paws, and then, the rest of him. She tilts her head. “You’re filthy,” she laughs, half scolding and half amused, and reaches over to pluck a twig out from his beard; one turns into two, then three, until she has enough to build a small campfire.

She wastes much of her morning grooming a dog that will undo her work the moment he steps a paw outside her chambers, but it feels good to do it. She combs the snarls and snags in Ghost’s fur, as delicate and considerate as she can be. Then, she brushes the mud and dirt from his coat as best she can. She becomes so lost in her work at she doesn’t register the knock on her door, and nearly tips over in shock when she hears Jon’s voice, “You’ll spoil him.”

Ghost nudges his head against Sansa’s hand, clearly eager to continue receiving attention, and she rubs absently at his ears. “He deserves it,” she says finally: _we all do_. She knows he meant his words to be a joke--and where had this newfound humor come from?--but she’s feeling bittersweet, the direwolf between them a reminder of years passed and the family they’ve both lost. She never told him about Lady, she realizes.

Jon’s expression softens, and his gaze flicks down to Ghost. “You miss her.”

The words don’t come. Instead, they sit silently together by the crackling hearth. Jon holds her hand in his, steady and strong. One day, she thinks; one day, she will tell him of Lady’s last days, but for now-- his comfort would be enough.


	3. Young!Sansa & Young!Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dk65 asked for: 3-yr-old!Sansa teaches little!Jon to dance before the Karstarks visit Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is aged up (7), but-- yeah, young Stark fic.

Sansa likes Jon Snow. He's her half-brother, which means he's born from her father. She's not supposed to know that--or the crude word _bastard_ that goes along with it _\--_ but she heard mother and Old Nan whispering about _what to do with Jon_ when the Karstarks arrive for next month’s feasting while she was supposed to be sewing but snuck off to sneak a lemon cake from the kitchens. It sounded like a secret, so she kept it to herself like a real lady would, even though she doesn’t like keeping secrets. She didn’t even tell Jeyne about it. 

“What're you smiling about?” Robb asks.

Sansa wants to stick her tongue out at him, but she shuts the book she wasn’t really reading instead, happy for a distraction from her boring lessons. “I’m thinking about the Karstark feast,” she says shyly. She hasn't met a Karstark before, but their house has been tied to the Starks for thousands of years, according to Old Nan and Maester Luwin, so it must be true. She’s never been to a party before, either. Except as a babe, but she doesn't remember any of it, so it doesn't count. There might be Knights, she thinks; not the scruffy bannermen of the North, but proper, gallant Knights with shining armor and fair hair and who can sing like a bell. She sneaks a glance at Jon, who’s staring intently at his own open book.

Robb gives Jon a nudge with his elbow, a knowing smirk on his lips. Sansa frowns immediately. “Daydreaming about Knights, then, were you?” he asks. 

She blushes, sufficiently teased. “ _No,”_ she says, then tilts her chin up like she's seen mother do a hundred times before--like when she’s admonishing Robb and Jon and Theon for rough housing. “I’m thinking of all the dances I’ll have.”

Robb laughs. “You're too young to dance.”

“I am _not,_ ” she says hotly, flushing again when she realizes her temper is not in keeping with a real lady’s. She folds her hands neatly in her lap. “Besides, I've been practicing.”

“With whom?” Robb sniffs. 

“With Jeyne.” And her doll, when she's alone, but she's not going to admit to _that_. She's almost seven, after all. “Mother says I'm ‘very good’.”

Robb opens his mouth, no doubt to tease her mercilessly some more, but Jon jumps in with a quiet, “I’m sure you are good”, which both shuts Robb up and makes Sansa’s heart quicken.

Robb crosses his arms over his chest. He’s rarely interrupted by anyone ever, and Sansa is quietly gleeful when he is. “Maybe you should practice your steps with Sansa.” He says it like it’s the worst punishment he can think of.

Jon puffs up. “If Sansa will allow me, maybe I will.” 

Sansa thinks on it for a moment, like she's been taught, and then says, “I'll allow it.” She knows she's not supposed to play with Jon--whispers of _bastard_ coming to the forefront of her mind--but he would be a good dance partner. She likes him, and he's always been nice to her, like he’s being now. Surely just a few times couldn't hurt. They'd just have to keep it a secret. But when everyone sees how well she can dance, she can reveal that it was Jon who helped her practice, and then, maybe, him being a bastard wouldn't be so bad, and they could talk more. 

She doesn't tell Jon her plan of the reveal, but she does ask him to meet her in the secret spot behind the courtyard she and Jeyne discovered a month previous. It carries echoes all the way from the main hall, so they can scatter if anyone comes to look for them. He gives her a small smile when she explains her reasoning, and she beams back. Robb, of course, doesn’t do much but roll his eyes and drag Jon away with him. Probably to do something stupid with Theon.

The next day, she tells Old Nan she is doing early lessons with Maester Luwin, and tells Maester Luwin she is working at her sewing with Old Nan. It's what her books call a dupe. She rarely asks for free time from her schooling--she is the most well behaved out of the children--and so she goes to meet Jon without as much as a blow to her good conscience.

He's already in the secret spot when she arrives, looking at his boots. “Good morning,” she says, polite, and pulls out a wrapped lemon cake from her pocket. She got it just for him this morning. She unfolds the handkerchief and offers it up. “I brought this for you. A thank you gift.”

He turns red, and after a bit of prompting, he takes the proffered sweet. He eats it in just a few bites.

They get to business shortly after. Sansa hums a tune, and Jon quickly joins in. She’s chosen them a fast dance to start, with lots of twists and turns, and Jon is surprisingly quick on his feet. He only messes up a couple times. “Father makes me practice,” he admits, when Sansa asks how he knows the southern dances. It makes sense, she decides. Ladies like dancing, and Jon will one day have a lady; and if he wants to get married to a respectable girl, he’ll have to woo her, and dancing is a good way to start.

He only laughs when she tells him as much. “Why are you laughing?” she asks. “Don't you want to get married?” She's borderline scandalized at the thought. What more is there? What more could he want?

“I'm a bas-- I’m base born,” he says, “I won't be marrying any respectable girls, Sansa, because I'm not respectable at all.”

Of all the things she expects Jon to say, that he's not respectable is not one of them. He's honorable, like father, and not quite as annoying as Robb or Theon, which makes him the preferred brother--even if he is only half of hers and, apparently, not respectable. She presses her lips together, thinking. Though she’s wanted to marry a fair haired prince since forever, she could settle for someone with dark curls and a good heart. Mind made up, she declares: “Then I'll marry you.” 

Jon drops her hand like she's burned him. “Don't say that,” he says, then apologizes immediately after.

“Why not?”

“Because you're my sister. And I'm a bastard.”

“But--”

“Sansa,” he says, grabbing her hands in his, “you can’t say that, ever again. Do you promise me?”

She sniffs, not wanting to dance anymore. Not with Jon, who’s soundly rejected her proposal--which, she knows, is a very rude thing to do. Not with anyone. She tugs her hands from his and throws them down to her sides. “Fine,” she says, trying very hard to be good. 

“Oh, please don’t cry,” Jon says, jumping forward to wipe the tears from Sansa’s eyes like mother and father when she’s sad. “You’re going to marry someone much better than me some day.”

She’s not so sure. 

“Come on,” he says, “let’s practice some more.” 

They meet for a week. It becomes hard to keep up with the lies she tells to Old Nan and Maester Luwin. A few times, she’s had to run all the way to the solar when she saw one or the other making their way in that direction, only to discover that they weren’t in search of her in the first place. It almost always ended up with her roped into more lessons, too, when she would rather be dancing with Jon.

“Rather be dancing with me?” he asks, eyes widening in shock when she accidentally blurts that bit out when she’s lamenting the two hours of extra history from the day before.

She doesn’t tell him she’s been thinking about marriage again, and dreams about her fair haired prince have been solidly replaced by her favorite brother. She nods instead, and drags him into another quick, jaunty tune; one of her favorites, and one she fondly remembers many years later, long after the winds of winter have come and gone.


	4. White Walker Princess!Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked for: 'Sansa is born as the Night King's daughter and she falls in love with Jon during the Battle of Hardhome.'

She watches the battle unfold in the valley below, listens to the screams of the wights and the humans mingle together; bone on bone on metal. There's only one human, however, that catches her eye. _King Crow_ , she's heard him called. The Lord Commander. Jon Snow.

He's nothing like his name implies, she thinks. He may have hair as dark as the long night promised to come, and eyes to rival the color of the frost on her cheek, but he is passion. He is fire. Burning like a beacon, drawing her like a moth to a flame. She is, despite her nature, enraptured.

He yells suddenly, his words whisked away by the winds, and he thrusts his gleaming sword aloft. _He is crazed_ , she thinks. _He is mad!_ He runs into the fray, then, battling towards the northern keep-- for what purpose, she cannot begin to fathom. He cuts the pawns down, one by one. Soon enough, the Night King’s commander is sent to kill the King called Snow.

Her gloved hands tighten upon the reigns of her mount. Her heart of ice cracks and, for the first time since her awakening, she _feels_ \--

She feels. Fear. Worry? It’s a foreign ache in her chest that compels her, watching helplessly as Snow flies and falls under the hand of the Night’s commander, and she urges the mare she rides into a full gallop down the slope. It’s a long ride, but she’s light, her ride swifter.

Wind whips at her skin and stings her eyes, and she reaches through the shattered ice of her father’s fallen warrior to steal the dark-haired human. After all, it is not love, but passion as fierce as fire that she seeks.

 

-

 

Jon moans awake. Every inch of him throbs, like he’s been pummeled. _Hardhome_ , he thinks suddenly, and struggles upright with a wincing gasp. And it’s there, cupping his swimming head, that he sees _her_. He feels faint, a chill little to do with the cold rattling through him.

A woman-- no, a _creature_ with an angel’s face, tends to the roaring fire he’s been laid next to. It is the _thing_ who grabbed him before he could reach the bag of dragon glass. The one who whisked him away into some barren, snow-covered wasteland. _Gods,_ he thinks. The end for him surely must be near.

“I mean you no harm,” she says then, as if she can read his thoughts; her sapphire-colored eyes shine unnaturally bright. With horror, he realizes they do not reflect the light of the fire. 

“What do you mean to do with me, then.” He tries for blustering brave, inching his fingers towards hidden daggers. Longclaw, he thinks. He needs Longclaw. “You meant to kill hundreds of men, women and children-- but not me. Why?”

Her lips twist; a cold, beautiful smile. “You will help me, Snow,” she says, after a long moment. “There is a curse I need breaking. I’ve been waiting for a thousand years for you.”

He says nothing, but his mind turns. He needs to survive this, that much is clear. And for now, he will play this creature’s games. “Tell me.”


	5. Arya POV - Arya returns to Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya POV wherein Arya returns to Winterfell.

When Arya walks through the gate, she isn’t Arya at all.

She wears the face of the beggar girl, one of the many who sought the Many-Faced God and found him and his mercy; and, though she wants nothing more than to rip the mask off and declare herself home, she sinks into anonymity like the old friend it is.

She walks the familiar halls of Winterfell in silence, noting the scorch marks, the rubble, the slight differences and the large as she goes. The hearth in the feasting hall is just the same, except that a crackling fire battles against the pressing cold of winter-- and the Stark tapestry that once hung proudly, boldly, on the far wall is pitted through with burn marks. Absently, she fingers a frayed hole, her thoughts gone adrift.

Then, the presence of another slides up her spine, a warning, and she spins on her heel. But it is only an old friend who stares back at her.

“ _Ghost,_ ” she gasps, and drops to her knees as the direwolf lopes over. Her hands bury into his thick, white fur, and his giant head drops over her shoulder. He smells terrible, she thinks with a delirious laugh, but it doesn’t keep her from pressing her nose against him. She thought returning to Winterfell, her _home_ , would be sweet, but it wasn’t. It felt like nothing. _This,_ however, this--

“Ghost! Get back!” A voice snaps out, and Arya rises to her feet as Ghost does as he’s commanded. And it is there, wearing the face of another, that Arya sees her brother Jon once more. Her throat tightens, and her mouth dries, all the words in all the worlds feeling insufficient in this moment. So in speaking’s stead, she reaches up, and pulls.

 

-

 

“Braavos,” Sansa repeats, for what is surely the tenth time. “You learned to-- to do _that_ \--” she gestures vaguely, “from some assassin in Braavos.” 

“No One,” she clarifies, and waves her hand when she sees her sister preparing more questions; questions that were best left for another night, or never. “Leave it. Let’s-- tell me about you. Winterfell.”

Jon and Sansa exchange a long look, and Arya can’t help but glance between them.

There is-- something there, she realizes. A feeling in her gut, a sight without seeing, tells her it is so. Her eyes narrow. It takes her a moment to realize exactly what it is, and when she does, her jaw drops. _Never_ had Sansa looked at Jon twice, when they were children. _Half-brother_ was her preferred term for him-- bastard, of course, too crude a term for a proper lady like her. But, now, after so many hours of recounting her story, even as redacted as it was, she sees it: the intimacy, the My Lords, and Your Graces; Sansa’s hand resting carelessly on the arm of Jon’s chair; the toes of Jon’s boots nudged up against Sansa’s. Small fragments of a larger picture, all pointing to one thing.

She heard a whisper on the wind, between the Riverrun and the Twins-- a rustling in the trees about the Dragon Queen, her long, lost nephew, and his hastily met marriage to the Lady of the North. Arya was expecting some silver-haired lord to meet with her, Sansa, and Jon in the solar, and was mildly surprised when he never arrived. But, then, perhaps he was there all along.

_Lyanna and Rhaegar_. Jon.

The goblet almost slips from her fingers. “You two?” she cries out. “You’re the lost Targaryen heir?!”

Jon glances away, and Sansa’s mouth tightens. For a moment, they look the image of their belated parents-- the Lady and Lord of Winterfell-- and Arya’s shock melts away as quickly as it came. So much changed between them all. Years and years and death upon death. What, she thinks, is one more? A better one? A happy one. They look good together. And, from what she’s heard, they’re formidable, too. A dragon and a wolf. 

“Well,” she says, tone wry, “this is a tale I’d be glad to hear you try and sing, _cousin_.”

“Arya!” Sansa says, surely scandalized on behalf of her Lord husband. Jon only laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like i should be apologizing for posting so much. sorry, all!


	6. Podric POV - Brienne/Tormund + background implied Jonsa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked for: 'Tormund thinks Jon and Sansa are seriously into each other. Proper Brienne thinks they are not! They make a wager.'

Podric sighs. He’s going on ten of them, now. He knows the number because he’s taken to counting them in his boredom; the great gusty breaths he can’t help but release because, Seven help him, he isn’t sure how much more of Tormund and Brienne he can take.

Never before has he seen such a difference between people: the frankness of the wildings wrapped up in furs, and the buttoned-up propriety of the court in gleaming armor. Tormund, bawdy and loudly honest. Brienne, eloquent, honorable, and… easily offended. They are like night and day. Fire and water. Or, he muses, oil and water, if Lady Brienne had her way. But, like oil, Tormund is not easily repelled.

And tonight, the cause of Tormund’s honesty and Brienne’s offense is the matter of Lady Sansa and his newly Northern Grace, Jon Snow. Together. Frankly speaking, Pod sees it, too-- the longing looks, the innocent glances, the long winter’s night walks; but, looking at the deep, red flush descending down Brienne’s neck, he isn’t stupid enough to open his mouth and say so. Tormund, on the other hand...

“Ser,” Brienne says, voice tight, “what you are suggesting is hardly proper!” 

“I ain’t no _Ser_ ,” Tormund fires back, a glinting leer in his eyes, “and there ain’t nothing proper between ‘em, I’ll wager you that.” 

“They are _siblings_.” 

“Half, and that hardly counts.” 

Her hand fists around Oathkeeper’s pommel, leather glove creaking. “You are vile.”

Tormund tilts his head, side to side. “Eh, that’s fair.” 

Brienne stands up, shadowing the table with her formidable form. She pulls her shoulders back, chin high, and sneers down at Tormund, while Tormund looks more and more enraptured by the posturing. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening as much as I have enjoyed your company,” she says, and storms off. 

Tormund props his chin onto his fist, looking about as lovelorn as the King in the North as he does it.

Pod sighs again. _Eleven._


	7. Modern AU - Fake/Pretend Relationship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU + fake/pretend relationship trope.
> 
> Anon asked for: 'Can I kiss you?'

“Can I kiss you?”

Jon promptly chokes on his beer. Sansa jumps forward with napkins, dabbing at the mess on his shirt. “What?” he croaks.

“Joffrey is here,” she says coolly, “with Margaery Tyrell, which is just-- _great._ I know I’m being petty as hell, but I could really use a win today. I promise I brushed my teeth right before we left. Please? Just pretend?”

Jon’s boggles for a moment. Kissing Sansa would be the absolute worst idea ever. Not because he would be kissing his best friend’s little sister; no, it would a _bad idea_ because he’s had a crush on her since their high school days, and kissing her might actually ruin him romantically for the rest of his life. The break-up with Ygritte was bad enough.

Sansa bites her lip then, and his gaze is helplessly drawn down. He’s spent an embarrassing amount of time imagining her kissing him, actually. But the only thing that could, really, be worse than kissing his long time crush on a whim, was kissing her because she wanted to make her ex-boyfriend and current ‘frenemy’ _jealous_. But he really couldn’t deny her anything, never has been able to. So he gives her a tiny nod, trying for nonchalance he doesn’t feel, and prepares himself. 

“You’re the best,” she says, and steps into his space with a relieved smile, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders as he captures her lips with his. It’s– good. Better than good. She smells lovely, flowery and sweet, and her mouth tastes faintly like Chapstick and alcohol. The kiss deepens without him meaning to do it, lost in the buzz of drink and Sansa. They only break away when a clear, pointed cough cuts through them. He pulls away with a blink. Sansa looks just as startled as he, but quickly recovers. 

“Sansa,” Margaery says, smiling wide at them both. “I had _no_ idea you’d be here, what a pleasant surprise. And this is…?”

Sansa presses further into Jon’s space, looping her arm around his shoulders. “Jon. My boyfriend.”

“Oh! _Boyfriend_? I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.”

Sansa laughs. It’s fake. “Of course you wouldn’t. It’s very new.”

Margaery cuts her gaze across to Jon. It’s a silent question, a searching probe that’s meant to poke holes in a suspected fabrication, and he’s compelled to speak under the tightening of Sansa’s fingers. “Quite new, really,” he concurs quietly, rubbing his thumb in circles against Sansa’s waist. “We’re very happy, though.”

Margaery’s smile tightens up, and she hums. “You two look it,” she says. “Well, lovely seeing you, Sans. I’ll see you at the mixer next week?”

“Can’t wait,” Sansa breathes, and the two girls give one another air kisses before Margaery slips back into the crowd. As soon as she’s gone, Sansa spins in Jon’s hold and sinks against him. She takes a deep breath and murmurs against his temple, “Gods, it’s like walking a tightrope while someone’s holding a viper to your neck.”

“Seems like it,” he agrees. They hold one another a bit more--a length of time he’s hoping is appropriate for the occasion of fakery--and Sansa gives his cheek a chaste peck before stepping out of his space fully.

She brushes her fingers through the curl of his hair, the fringe that always hangs across his forehead, with another sweet smile. “You’ve done an admirable job tonight. My hero.”


	8. Young!Sansa & Young!Jon (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked for: 'bb!Jon and bb!Robb fighting over for Sansa's affection.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Same general 'verse as this fic.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7482330/chapters/17084374)

“Sit here,” Robb says, and more or less wrangles Sansa into the seat he’s concocted out of an old saddle, a bale of hay, and several threadbare blankets.

Jon crosses his arms. “She doesn’t have to sit up there if she doesn’t want to.”

“Well, this is a _tourney_ , and the lady always sits up on the dais so that she can see everyone.”

“Why?”

“How else is she supposed to give her favor if she can’t see anything or anyone? It wouldn’t make sense otherwise.”

“The lady is quite ready for the tournament to _begin_ ,” Sansa cuts in, “or is the first round to be the Battle of Bickering?”

Jon and Robb--or whichever brave and gentle knight they are pretending to be this morning--snap to attention. Sansa waves her hand, asking for their introductions and titles, and it takes another two minutes of their arguing on who gets to be the Dragon Knight or the Grass King before they move onto the tournament itself.

She watches them chase one another across the courtyard: they act through swordplay, three rounds of jousting, and then archery, and all the while Sansa wishes that Arya was older so that maybe they could switch roles. She would much rather be sewing or singing than watching Robb and Jon poke at one another with wooden swords and scream while she teeters on itchy, smelly hay. In the end, however, all her boredom is made worth it when Robb is declared winner and places a finely woven crown of blue flowers atop her head.

“Jon made it,” Robb admits sheepishly when she raves at its beauty, and Jon flushes red when she turns her thanks to him. “It didn’t take me long,” he says, but Sansa doesn’t believe him. To repay his hard work, she wears the crown for the rest of the day even though Septa Mordane asks her to remove it several times; and that evening, after she’s brushed her hair out, she presses the flowers between the pages of a solid book with a smile. Robb might have won the tournament, but Jon won her favor.


	9. Young!Sansa & Young!Jon (Part 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 in the young Starks 'verse.
> 
> Anon asked for: Baby!Sansa wakes up from a nightmare and somehow ends up in his bastard brothers room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Young Starks 'verse!
> 
>  
> 
> [Part One](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7482330/chapters/17084374)
> 
>  
> 
> [Part Two](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7482330/chapters/17441701)

She wakes with a whimper, and when she sits up to rub at her eyes, her fingers come away wet. _A nightmare,_ she thinks with a sniffle. She was crying in her sleep. She can’t remember what frightened her so, but it must have been absolutely terrible. Still, the fire in the hearth is roaring and burning bright, the windows are latched, and there is no monster ready to pounce upon her, so there isn’t much to be done but rearrange her pillows and furs and lie back down, which she does dutifully.

Sleep, of course, eludes her; every time she closes her eyes, she imagines a great, ugly beast at the foot of her bed with long, sharp teeth, or a shadow-thing scratching at her window with its claws, and though she tries to be brave, she still needs to open her eyes to check, and double check, until she’s restless and shivering with what she knows is misplaced fear. _There are no such things are monsters,_ she says to herself. Everyone says so. But what if? Theon used to laugh about krakens in the far away seas, swallowing ships that dared to cross its whirlpool bed; and sometimes, when the Septa wasn’t watching, she would read the books Arya giggled over, and discover tales of eight-legged horses and gargoyles.

Sansa drags her coverlet up under her chin. Why, oh why did she think of _more_ creatures to frighten herself with? She wishes Arya wanted to sleep with her tonight, or even Jeyne. She’s too grown to sneak into mother’s bed now. Septa Mordane’s counseling tone drifted to the forefront of her mind-- “Young Lady’s do not do such things,” she said, the last time she was caught in the dark halls-- but… there might be a solution… She bites her lip, and slips out of bed.

She dresses warmly, for it’s always cold in the North after the sun falls, and brings with her a candle. The way to Jon’s room is out of the way of the Septa’s, or the rest of the Starks, and very perfect for her midnight escape. She’s not caught by anyone along the way--or if they’ve seen her or her faint light, they didn’t think to stop her-- and she easily lifts the wooden bar across the door.

Jon is sleeping when she comes to his bedside, but blinks awake when she touches his shoulder and whispers his name. “Sansa?” he asks, voice thick with sleep and confusion. “What are you--?”

“I…” She trails off, suddenly embarrassed about having to admit that she snuck off to his room because she was scared of imaginary things; Jon wouldn’t be scared if the roles were reversed, surely, and she doesn’t want him to laugh at her. “I couldn’t sleep,” she finishes lamely.

He pushes up onto an elbow and scrubs a hand through his dark, curly hair. “And you came here…”

He sounds more confused than ever, and Sansa’s stomach tightens into a knot. The two of them haven’t had the best relationship as of late-- her mother’s disapproval of her half-brother hangs like a cloud over all the Stark children these days, though Sansa admits she is the only one who distanced herself from him right away. She remembers the hurt that flashed in his eyes when she said she could no longer play with him, and how she nearly took her words back, except that she remembered the approval in her mother’s smile when she did so, and it stayed her words. “Could I stay with you? Just for a little while?” Perhaps she should not dare ask that of him, but she’s always felt safest by his side. 

Jon’s mouth turns down a fraction. “It wouldn’t be proper,” he says after a moment, “for us to stay in the same bed.”

“But--” she and Arya do it all the time, and she knows Robb and Jon and Theon sometimes bunk together, too, but the words stick in her throat. Ladies do not complain or whine. They compromise. “I can sit in the chair, then. By the fire.”

“Sansa,” he sighs. “What would mother say if she saw you coming out of my room tomorrow morning?” 

She would be cross, and Jon would take the brunt of her offense-- even if Sansa tried to explain what happened, or take the blame. Nevertheless, the rejection stings worse than anything, and, to her horror, hot tears begin to well in her eyes; before she can take her leave of Jon’s presence, however, he whips the furs back and pats the mattress. “But… one time won’t hurt, I suppose,” he says. 

“I’ll wake up early,” she swears, the promise of tears all dried up.

After they’ve settled down Sansa whispers out a quiet, “Thank you.” The bed is warm, and comfortable, and the shroud of sleep is already pulling her under. Jon, who’s already half-asleep beside her, mumbles something back. It makes her smile. Though he probably only agreed to let her stay to avoid feeling guilty about hurting her feelings and staying up to brood about it, it’s a kindness she appreciates all the same. She drifts off to a dream of a brave knight in gleaming armor, a three-headed dragon sewn into his cape, a winter’s rose in his hand.


	10. White Walker Princess!Sansa (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the White Walker!Sansa 'verse.
> 
> Jon POV.

The creature weaves him a story; a tale of a red-haired babe left to the winter a thousand years ago, and the curse that froze her tender heart into solid ice. “The First Men left me,” she says, “my father found me, and the forest’s magic changed me.”

She wants to become what she once was, what she was never allowed to be. Human. “I've watched the Wall as long as it has been there to watch,” she says. Her blue eyes sparkle as she tells him so, a shimmer that is not unlike the snow that dances atop the tundra he’s been stolen to, and her voice is sweet and sad.

She is beautiful, too. That much he can see. She’s nearly as tall as he, which he discovers when she unfurls from her seated perch to cast another branch of wood upon the dying embers of their fire; her auburn hair is twisted into pleats, and her skin is iced over with delicate crystal flakes as pale as the snow. But for all her beauty, there's a quiet thrum of danger in her movements, too; an unnatural quickness that catches his gaze and turns his stomach. It must be magic.

For his part, Jon stays silent as she talks and tends to the fire, and ruminates on the fact that this is the second time he's been a captive of a red-haired woman in the land beyond the Wall. Perhaps, a year ago, he would have thought he was trapped in a fever dream, desperately recalling a bard’s tale he heard in the feasting halls of Winterfell and burning to his death, but he's seen enough to believe every single word she has spoken. The only part of the story left, however, is how she expects him to help her accomplish her goal; why she even needs him to begin with.

She looks away when he asks as much, and tosses another dry log onto the fire. He watches as her fingers linger, the flames licking at her fingertips, and the plume of steam that sizzles off her skin. She doesn't speak for a long time; long enough that he's expecting her to not speak at all. Then, “You're the one from the prophecy. The child born from both fire and ice.”

“What does that mean?” he dares to ask. “Born from fire and ice.”

She stares at him, unblinking. “You don't know.”

It takes every bit of patience he possesses to bite back the retort that jumps to his tongue, and he digs his fingers into his thigh instead. He doesn't know a great many things, least of all the identity of his mother, and now, with his Lord Father gone, he never would. _She means to taunt you,_ he thinks. He is nothing special. He is neither born from prophecy or the one she seeks. But he’s been taken against his will, a spoil of war, and for all that he’s fearful, he’s _angry_ , too.

“I’m a bastard,” he says plainly, “I've never known my mother.”

For a brief moment, a terrible sorrow pinches the woman’s face. A traitorous voice within Jon whispers that perhaps he and the creature aren't quite so different-- a child left as a sacrifice called for sympathy, after all; and so did a bastard who was hated by the only mother figure he ever knew-- but he brushes the thought aside easily. A innocent she might have been once, but she is no longer that.

She sighs then, and waves her hand. “There is a spell,” she says. “All I require is blood of both ice and fire, freely given, and the curse I suffer shall be no longer.”

“A spell,” he repeats flatly. He remembers back to Ser Davos and the Red Priestess, the alleged blood magic that poisoned Stannis. He is not eager to be used, or go any further North, but he knows he has little say in the matter. Until he has dragonglass or Longclaw, he won't be able to hurt her-- all he can do is keep his eyes open for an opportunity to run, or pray someone was foolish enough to seek him with another horse in tow. Furthermore: “How much blood?”

“A drop,” she replies, “maybe two.” 

He nearly laughs. “How am I supposed to trust you?” 

“You should not, nor do I ask that of you,” she says. “You are my prisoner, and you will do as I command. And I command you to accompany me.”

“You're going to kill me afterwards.”

“If you so desire…”

“And if I do not desire such a fate?”

“Then I will release you as my captor.”

He looks around. The land beyond the Wall isn't completely uninhabited. There are other creatures just as fearsome and hungry as the walkers, and he still does not know how to traverse the foreign land without a guide. Free he may become, but _safe_ … His fingers itch for Longclaw’s pommel. “I will do as you ask,” he says, though they both know he has no choice unless he wishes to die right now; he only hopes that she will take him at his words and think him to be a docile, willing captive. All he needs is one mistake to make a run for it. Just one. “But… I do have one condition.”

“You are a presumptuous man, Jon Snow,” she says, “but you may voice your request.” 

The knot in his stomach tightens. How did she know his name? He never gave it to her, he’s sure of it. He pushes all his surprise and terror and panic down, to a place somewhere deep inside of him, and swallows thickly around the bile that rose in his throat. This is a game of survival, he reminds himself. He cannot falter, and he _must_ live. His brothers need him. “I would ask your name.”

The creature smiles. The frost on her lips catches the light of the fire, bright and blood red in the dark; a ruby in a barren land. “Sansa,” she says finally, “you may call me Sansa.”


	11. Sansa teaches Jon to dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked for: 'Sansa teaching Jon to dance'.

Sansa couldn’t stand watching them any longer-- Theon, Robb, and Jon were all practicing their dances for tomorrow night’s feast, and they were _wretched._ “Oh, I can’t bear to look,” she despaired, turning away from the scene entirely. Didn’t they realize they were making absolute fools of themselves? And in the courtyard! Where everyone could see…

“They’re not _that_ terrible,” Jeyne said. She hummed thoughtfully after a moment, and her expression turning sly. “I wouldn’t mind if I danced with either one. Or all three.”

Sansa flushed. “ _Jeyne_.”

“What? They’re all handsome.”

“And graceless!”

“But who needs grace when you have a pretty face?”

Sansa barely held back her groan. She left Jeyne at the window--who seemed completely content to stay--and returned to her needlework. The yearly gathering of bannermen was on order, and all of Winterfell was in a tizzy; had been for quite some time now. Her mother had spent the majority of the previous month ensuring they would have enough food and drink and _space_ to accommodate all their guests, and all the Stark children (less Jon) had been submerged ear-deep in lessons on decorum and etiquette. Sansa had come out as the top pupil, thought she suspected it was only so because she cared the most for such things. The rest, as she saw in the courtyard, were completely content with settling for their Northern countenance.

She lost herself in her work, and when she finished the last stitch realized she was terribly stiff, and rather famished. The Septa waved her off with a kind smile, and Jeyne promised to find her at supper, and so Sansa went to the kitchens alone. The castle was all sorts of busy, she realized-- servants running to and fro in the passages-- and she turned down a hall she normally avoided. It was too quiet, and dark, but it served her well now. She came around the corner, and pulled up short.

Jon was alone, and-- dancing. He looked frustrated, but determined, a hard set to his mouth. She watched for a moment, torn between heading back the way she came and getting swept into the madness and interrupting her half-brother. Perhaps under any other circumstance-- if he were practicing anything else-- she would have turned away, but a warm fondness she rarely, if ever, associated with Jon swam in her stomach. He was _trying_ , she realized. And she could help him.

She stepped out of the shadows. “You’re missing the half-step,” she said, giggling behind her hand as Jon wobbled out of step. His expression could only be described as bewildered.

“Sansa-- I--”

“You were practicing,” she said. She bit her lip, thinking. “I can help you.”

“Help me,” he replied flatly.

“I know all the steps. I taught Jeyne. I could… I could teach you, too.”

He frowned harder, which she hadn’t thought was possible. “You’re making fun of me.”

“I am not.” She frowned, too. “Why would I make fun of you?”

He said nothing for a long time, and she nearly told him to forget her offer. But he smoothed his shirt down and offered her his hand. “Alright,” he said, “I am your willing student.”

And he was, and Sansa soon learned that Jon had the potential to be rather good. He listened to her criticisms--which, admittedly, were many-- but it didn’t take but one or two turns before he became proficient. She was shocked at first, then grew excited. She hadn’t had a good dance partner in so long. Hardly ever, if she were being honest. Perhaps-- perhaps at this feasting it would be busy enough, crowded enough, that she could dance with Jon without much notice.

“What are you smiling about?” Jon asked, pulling her from her thoughts.

She touched her cheek. “Nothing. Um. You’re-- much improved.”

“Thank you.” He smiled; it was tiny, but it was there. “Dancing… it’s like footwork. With the sword.”

“I suppose,” she humored him. The moment stretched out between them; this was, she knew, perhaps the longest time they’ve spent in one another’s presence alone. She fidgeted with her sleeve. “I hope I was helpful.”

“Very, yes.” He cleared his throat. “I hope you enjoy tomorrow’s festivities.”

They parted ways.

 

-

 

The next evening was chaotic, but exciting, filled with laughter and drinking and dancing. Sansa was not at all in want of a partner; as soon as she was released from someone’s arms, she was swept away into another pair, and every time she felt a gentle tap at her shoulder or elbow, she wished that they were Jon.


	12. Young!Sansa & Young!Jon (Part 4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young Starks 'verse.
> 
> Anon asked for: Sansa teaches Jon to wink.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Sansa says. “Try again!”

Jon sighs quietly. He’s been-- _practicing_ this wretched winking business with Sansa for the better part of the hour, ever since she saw him “attempt to” send one Robb’s way after archery lessons. And, as far as Sansa’s concerned, he has made no improvements whatsoever. “Perhaps I am not meant for it,” he tries, partially afraid his eye will roll right out of his head if he continues.

“But it’s so _simple_.” She sits up straight. “You want to get better, don’t you?”

She looks so earnest, Jon thinks. And worried. As if his failures aren’t only his failures, but hers as well. Still, he’s come to realize he is unable to deny her anything, even when she is being terribly stubborn, and her requests are nearly impossible to abide. So he says, “Of course I do,” and drinks in the bright smile she turns his way.


	13. Young!Sansa & Young!Jon (Part 5)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young Starks 'verse.
> 
> Asked for: 'Could you perhaps do one where it's Sansa's birthday and Jon gives her maybe a lemon cake or he makes a wooden white direwolf behind Catelyn's back?'

Sansa’s name day was a fortnight away, and Jon wanted to gift her something special. He would have to be careful, of course; perhaps he would even have to go so far as to present it in private. Her lady mother would certainly not be pleased if it were otherwise given in the Great Hall during the feast. Lady Catelyn had little love for him, and even less when he was around his half-siblings. Sansa especially so. Jon understood it, in a way; now more than he did when he’d been a babe. He was a bastard. An affront to Ned Stark’s honor, his very birth a blight on the vow he’d made in the sept a decade gone. Sansa was their first highborn daughter, refined and radiant. Everything a southron lady ought to be she was.

Jon and Sansa were not meant to be friends. Not only were they unalike, their futures would diverge, too. One day she will marry and run a keep or castle of her own, maybe even the _Red Keep_ , and he--well, he would be lucky to apprentice with an ordinary man and live the rest of his days hammering steel or shoeing horses. 

Even still, the deep, vast valley between their stations did not stop them from growing close over the years.

She taught him to dance, and they played together with Robb and Arya and Bran. She told him secrets she promised not even Jeyne had heard, and she often ran to him for comfort when Theon or Robb were teasing her. He would always sneak an extra lemon cake for her--even if it meant a sharp rap across the knuckles from a kitchenmaid--and she would always repay his thoughtfulness with a trinket of her own: a finely woven crown of flowers from the glass gardens, a beautifully stitched favor, or a warm hug. He loved her, as she loved him. And though he had little idea of what to get a girl who had want of nothing, he knew he would have to try. 

He tried asking Arya, to see if she’d gleaned anything during their lessons. “How should I know what she wants?” she complained. “Oh, I know! Give her a thimble!”

“A thimble?” Robb snorted later, when Jon shopped the idea around. He twisted the wooden practice sword in hand and swung it down hard upon Jon’s parry. “Don’t you know anything of girls?” 

Jon wiped the sweat from his brow. “Do _you?_ ” The most Robb had done with a girl was stammer his way out of a perfectly polite conversation. “Might I remind you of--”

Ser Rodrik stopped the impending argument with a growled shout from the sidelines. “Snow, Stark--get your swords up and _fight!”_

A sennight passed thus, and Jon was no closer than he had been before to a gift. What was worse, Sansa’s upcoming name day seemed to be all anyone could talk about in all of Winterfell. Jon heard Beth Cassel and Jeyne Poole whispering about beautiful dresses one day; a kitchenmaid spoke of jewels, and another about silk scarves from Dorne. Even Arya seemed excited for the feast--mostly, Jon was sure, because all the attention would be firmly away from her. She’d even picked out a ribbon for Lady’s collar.

The idea of what to do came to him as he passed a merchant stall in Wintertown. The man was selling small trinkets, carved statuettes of animals in soapstone and wood. It was like a sign from the gods. He had no funds to pay, but he was clever with a knife and he would have seven full days to complete the task. He went to the godswood and found a newly felled branch; it was weirwood white, thick but pliable. He whittled the body first, carving out piece by piece, until it began to take shape. The task was much harder than he’d first expected, and the grooves of his fingers were sore from holding such an oddly-formed thing for hours on end, but he pressed on. He finished it just in time; the very night before Sansa’s name day, in fact, and he tucked the little statue into his breast pocket for safekeeping.

He wanted to give her the gift before the feasting began, but catching her alone was nearly impossible. If her lady mother was not at her side, the septa was, or Jeyne. Sansa always acknowledged his presence with a kind smile or a polite greeting, but she was too well-bred to engage him otherwise when she was so surrounded.

Jon’s mood plummeted as the day went on. A name day gift was not a name day gift if it were given on any other day, and he had to watch as one by one his other siblings presented Sansa their finds during the feast. Her eyes lit up each time, turning whatever it was in her hands this way and that, and she enthused her thanks. Though Jon did not let the hurt show on his face, knowing he would not be called forward like Robb or Bran or Arya or even little Rickon pressed on old wounds. He excused himself once the dancing started, feigning a headache when Robb gave him a questioning look.

He was wallowing in the shadows when he heard Sansa call his name. “Jon… Where are you?”

“Here,” he said after a moment, and sat patiently as she followed the sound of his voice to his perch. “What are you doing out here?”

“I came to find you.” She twisted the new ribbon tied to her delicate wrist. She showed it to him. “Do you like it?”

“It befits you.” He’d been allowed two cups of summerwine tonight, and he drank them much too quickly. His maudlin mood showed. “You should go back inside. We’re celebrating _your_ name day, after all.”

“You’re not celebrating anything. You’re sitting out here alone.”

He bristled. “It’s where I belong, isn’t it?”

“ _Jon_ ,” she breathed, and he could hear the soft wobble of her voice that meant she would soon be crying. “It’s my _name day_. And you’re here. I thought… I thought you would come inside and dance with me. As my gift. You don’t have to, but…” 

It felt like he’d been knocked in the stomach with the blunt end of a sword. His eyes pricked with tears and he steadfastly held them back. “Your lady mother would not be pleased if I did,” he reminded her, suddenly remembering the gift he’d stashed in his pocket. He’d almost forgotten it in his misery. He retrieved the carving and held it out in his palm for her inspection. “I made this for you.”

She gasped softly. “It’s a direwolf.” She petted its nose. “It’s Lady, isn’t it?” He nodded. “She’s beautiful, Jon, thank you!”

They hugged one another. As soon as they were to break apart, Jon knew that distance between them would be all the greater; she was getting older now, and a friendship with her bastard half-brother would only grow all the more improper. But in that quiet moment, with Sansa in his arms, he felt equal, and good, and loved.


	14. Sansa + longbow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked for: Sansa asks Jon to teach her how to use a bow.

 

 

“I want to learn,” she says. In her hands is a longbow–the same one she plucked from a pile in the armory two moons back–and she holds it out to him now. She harbored it in her chambers for weeks, gathering her courage for a moment such as this one.

Jon takes it from her. He runs his finger along the curve, plucks at the string like a bard with his harp. He is a skilled swordsman, and adept at the bow as well. He is the only one she trusts to ask, and she knows he will not deny her. “Why now?” he asks.

She gives him a small smile. “Did you know Jeyne and I would watch you in the training yard?” she asks. “You and Robb and even Theon. All three of you tried to teach Bran how to use one.”

“To no avail.”

“I was sure Ser Rodrik would tear out his whiskers when he’d discovered how the three of you undid everything he’d taught our poor brother.”

He laughs quietly. “I remember. We were all paddled for it, I promise you. And then Robb--Robb refused to use a bracer.”

“Not much of a rebellion, if I recall it correctly. His arm looked like a cat had gotten to him by the end of the day.” Her mother was upset; her father had no sympathy. She remembers how sore Robb was, how he bemoaned his pain for weeks. Arya teased him mercilessly and Sansa thought for certain he was dying. But, of course, he was merely being dramatic. Oh, how she misses them all. “Will you teach me then?”

“Aye, I will,” he replies. He sets the bow aside and reaches out to tuck a curl of hair behind her ear. The tender move warms her stomach, and she leans into his lingering touch; _thank you._


	15. Post-BotB Bath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked for Sansa helping Jon bathe/tending to his wounds after BotB.

Sansa is waiting for him when he enters his chambers. He is covered in filth -- blood and guts and grime from battle -- and she is sitting primly on the high-backed chair by the hearth, the hems of her skirts perfectly clean. A feeling he cannot place settles in his stomach at the sight of her. Guilt, maybe, he thinks. Her hair is so red. Tully Red. Red like Robb. Red like Rickon.

“I had a bath drawn for you,” she says. Her words are soft, but they stab through the silence.

He steps inside and props Longclaw against the wall, closes the door. There is indeed a steaming bath in the middle of the room, but how she found the time to order a servant to fetch water is beyond him. Still, he is not surprised. She has proven herself more than capable in every facet, battlefield and beyond.

Though he would like to discover the reason behind her presence in his room -- after all, he would have seen the bath on his own and without her prompting -- he is aching and sore. So much so that he cannot bring forward the words to thank her. Winterfell is theirs, but the war for the North is not yet won. He is tired. So very tired. Like every bit of him has been drained, if there was anything left _of_ him to begin with. He brushes away the vague memory of a black, black nothingness and begins the tedious process of removing his kit.

Sansa stands then. Instead of taking her leave, she comes to stand before him. Wordlessly, she reaches out and pushes his fumbling fingers aside. She makes quick work of his buckles, gaze darting up to meet his in turns, and his stomach squeezes at the realization that she is _checking_ on him.

“Your hands will--”

“ _Jon_.” She jerks the last strap free. “It’s fine.”

He lets her undress him. Better she does it, as he can barely lift his arms overhead to remove the heavy leather jerkin and the drenched tunic underneath. He expects her to leave once he is bare-chested, but she does not -- nor does she marvel or flinch at the violent pattern of scars that blemish his skin. How little this Sansa Stark resembles the sweet red-haired sister of his boyhood. He cannot fathom what she would have done at seeing him so, all those years ago. Perhaps thought him perverse and every bit of the baseborn bastard he is… but this Sansa? She fixes him with a look forged from pure steel, tips of her fingers pressed above his heart: _we survived._

She unfastens the stays of his breeches and he toes out of his boots, and he allows Sansa to lead him to the bath. There is no modesty to be had now, and he fully disrobes. The water discolors as soon as he steps in, but its burning heat more than makes up for the murk. He sighs.

“Too hot?” Sansa asks, and he shakes his head.

“No. No, it’s perfect.” He used to dream of Winterfell’s springs when the winds over the Wall whipped his skin red and chapped. It is just as soothing as he remembers and he slides further in. He scrubs his face clean, then his hair.

Sansa brings him a towel and fresh clothes after he is done washing, and dabs a thick balm on the revealed cut above his brow and the split skin of his knuckles. She smiles sadly as she does so, eyes misted with unshed tears. It is all too easy to feel the weight of old, faded memories now that they are finally home, and yet there is still much ahead of them to conquer -- there will be no respite. Soon, they will have to face the Northern lords. Soon, but not now.

He turns his hand over in Sansa’s and takes a breath. _Thank you._


	16. Modern AU - runaway bride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked for: Sansa as a runaway bride and Jon as the getaway driver.

Sansa stares at herself in the full-length mirror of her bridal suite. She is, at the very least, the very picture of what a bride _should_ be. She spent an hour getting her hair and makeup professionally done, and her slip is couture; the wedding dress her mother insisted on is hung on the hook by the door. She touches the jeweled comb tucked into her intricate up-do and feels a decidedly unhappy swoop in her stomach. She doesn’t feel like a bride. Not at all. 

Her mother left to get them a glass of champagne. “To calm your nerves, darling,” she said. “It’s completely normal. I had to pop a Xanax before I walked down the aisle to your father,”

Her mother’s words were meant to comfort, to say that every bride experiences a panic or a terror before joining with their future to-be. To Sansa, they were blaring claxons: _Get out while you still can._

For one, she does not love Harry Hardyng. He is undoubtedly handsome and charming, and from a good, upstanding family just like her own. He’s studying to be a lawyer and is already an alumni from a respectable Westeros university. He is everything she wanted when she was a young girl who dreamed of fair-haired princes and sweet princesses, but now that she has him… She wants to run away.

It -- their marriage -- won’t be forever. She knows in her heart of hearts that they will not last. Even sweet Bran looked at her like she lost her mind when she told the family she was engaged. But she and Harry dated for two years and he popped the question in front of all their friends at New Year’s (gods, how she _hated_ public proposals) and now here she is: ten months later and due to the sept in an hour’s time. And that’s when the idea flashes in her mind. A wild thought. _I can run._

She tries to tamp down the thought. Both their families put thousands of dollars into the wedding -- the cake, the invitations, the deposit for the venue, the DJ, her _dress_. It would be ridiculous. She couldn’t just… leave. Right? _You can,_ a tiny voice whispers. She stuck it out with Harry for a year too long -- and getting out of it is now or never.

With shaking hands, she pulls the comb out of her hair. She snatches her button-up shirt and puts it on over her slip. She grabs her purse and leaves the room. She goes in search of Arya -- the one person she knows will be more than happy to drive off in the sunset with her, no questions asked -- but bumps into her brother’s best friend instead.

Jon Snow steadies her, a look of confusion on his face, and he asks, “Did you forget something? I saw your mother--”

She grabs him by the shoulders. “Get me out of here,” she begs. “I need to leave.”

Instead of trying to calm her down or stop her from potentially making the biggest blunder (and social faux pas) of her entire life, Jon straightens himself up like he’s headed off for war and leads her out back through the stairwell to the parking lot. His car is nestled in with the rest and she hops in. They peel out of the lot without anyone screaming out for her to stop and Sansa heaves a relieved sigh as she watches the hotel disappear in the sideview mirror. With each mile that passes, the mild level of panic she’s been living in since New Year’s lessens. That’s how she knows she made the right choice.

They’ve been driving for ten minutes before Sansa’s phone blows up -- her mother, then Robb, her father, then Harry too. She turns it off without answering. _I’m sorry…_ She knows she will hurt every single one of them, but she can’t handle a conversation -- explaining -- right now.

Another five minutes go by before Jon’s phone starts to ring.

They share a look.

“Do you want me to…” Jon motions to his phone in the cup holder in the center console. 

“Please.”

He turns off his phone as well, and they drive on in silence. Jon turns onto a back road, and it doesn’t take Sansa long before she realizes where they’re headed -- North. It’s a long drive back home to Winterfell and she knows she’ll have to face the music before they ever reach it, but for now… She reaches for Jon’s hand and squeezes.


	17. Modern AU - fake date to a wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked for: “we’re getting fake engaged for [insert reason here]”
> 
> except it’s faking dating at a wedding :)

The invitation comes on a Tuesday: cream-colored and classic, embossed gold script requesting Sansa Stark’s presence at the nuptials between Margaery Tyrell and Joffrey Baratheon. Sansa stares at the card, at the delicate trim, at the perfect choice of typography, color, and arrangement, at the card that could've been taken directly out of her stupid fairytale wedding Pinterest board -- and she seethes. It takes everything she has not to tear the RSVP card up into a million pieces. Instead, she snaps a picture and sends it to Arya. 

She and Marg are friends. Well, as much ‘friends’ as two people can be when they share an ex-boyfriend who, Sansa is still convinced, is the second coming of Satan. She knows she’s not _obligated_ to attend, but oh, how she wants to rub her post-Joff life in his face. She finished school. She has her own apartment, her own _job_ \-- simple things he snubbed for the entirety of their nearly two-year relationship. It would serve him right to see her thriving, even if she knows, deep down, he won’t care a whit what she’s done since the breakup.

A few minutes later, Arya calls -- who bypasses a greeting entirely and goes straight to, “Are they fucking serious?”

“Apparently so,” Sansa replies.

“After everything that asshole put you through?” 

“I know.”

Arya gives a blustering sigh. “But you’re going.” 

“I haven’t -- I haven’t completely decided yet,” she hedges. “Joff is--”

“An entitled dickbag. But yes, continue.”

“I could stand to never, ever see his face again, but Marg is my friend…” 

“ _Friend._ Yes, let’s call it that… well, your skin has never been clearer. Is it an open bar? Should be. Lord knows they’ve the money for it. You should go if only to run the tab up. Oh! What if they have an open mic toast?” 

Sansa laughs as Arya rattles off a list of terrible behavior, her simmering anger nearly extinguished. While she and her sister are like night and day, the petty rivalry that marked their early childhood morphed into a bond she would never want to give up. “I appreciate the suggestions,” she says, thinking. “Do you want to come as my plus-one?” 

“What’s the date?”

Sansa tells her. 

“Let me talk to Gendry. I think we might’ve booked a con that weekend.”

“I hope you can come,” she says, truly meaning it. They talk for a while longer, catching up with the family drama -- Jeyne is pregnant and Robb went full-throttle baby-proofing their house -- and say goodbye with a promise to catch drinks in the coming weeks.

A week passes before Arya comes back with the news that she can’t attend. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Did you already send in the RVSP?”

She did. “It’s fine. I can always call Marg and tell her my date fell through.” She would rather take that humiliation over the phone than show up without someone at her side. Joff wouldn’t notice -- but she knows Marg would.

“Or…” Arya hums. “Why don’t you ask Jon?” 

“Isn’t he still up North?”

“No. I think something happened… I don’t know what exactly, you know how he is. Give him a call. I’m sure he’d like to catch up.”

Sansa gives a soft laugh -- out of everyone in the Stark family, she and Jon are the least close, but she has to admit it _would_ be nice to see a familiar face. The last time she saw him, he was leaving for Castle Black in his black hoodie. They hugged that day, and she later cried in her room over it. Jon Snow was her first crush, a fact she didn’t know until he was already gone.

The next day, she does give Jon a call. The surprise in his voice is evident when he answers, but he stays unfailingly polite -- even accepting her offer to attend Marg and Joff’s wedding. “I would be more than happy to drink an extraordinary amount of champagne with you,” he says graciously.

They keep in touch in the following months, occasionally catching dinner or a movie. Jon is not exactly the same as she remembered him to be -- less serious, certainly -- but still a _good_ man, and an even better friend. He grew to be more handsome too, and there’s a part of Sansa that secretly hopes something more might become of _them_ sooner or later. Still, she doesn’t push the issue -- not until the Tyrell-Baratheon reception, that is.

“Oh, Sansa!” Marg says, arms wrapping around Sansa’s shoulders. Her dress is exquisite, her makeup and hair is impeccable, and even though Sansa isn’t happy about _who_ she is marrying, she can’t say the woman isn’t radiant. “I’m so glad you could come!” 

“Thank you for having us.”

“ _Us_ ,” Marg whispers, and glances over to Jon who came with Sansa to give their well-wishes. “How come I haven’t heard of this date of yours?” 

Before Sansa can explain that _no_ , her and Jon are purely platonic, Jon jumps in with a quick, “We just started dating, actually.”

“Very new!” Sansa agrees, a little wildly. She looks to Jon and tries to beg him with her eyes to not say any more. This news is the very thing Margaery Tyrell thrives on and there is no way she will be able to brush it away without admitting it was all a lie.

“But we’ve known each other practically our entire lives,” he continues on. 

“Oh _really?_ ” Marg breathes.

They escape the well-wishing line after a moment, shoved to the side by other relatives and friends, and Sansa steers Jon outside, not sure if she wants to kiss him or yell at him. “What was that?” 

“It just came out,” he admits. “I mean -- it’s why you asked me to come, isn’t it?” 

She knows she should be mad, or maybe a little insulted. Still, Jon Snow barreling down the plot of a wedding rom-com out of misplaced honor has her truly laughing for the first time in a long time. “No, it’s not. I swear it,” she says. “I promise I wouldn’t do that to you.”

She sees the moment he realizes she really _did_ just intend for them to come as friends -- a mild squint of the eyes, and a faint red flush at his neck -- and she has to catch his hand to keep him from scrubbing it through his hair. A nervous tick that would be at odds with the tidy bun he’s currently sporting. “I’ve made it worse,” he says, glancing back to the reception hall. “Didn’t I?” 

“Well, no. Unless you intend to be a terrible fake boyfriend.” He shakes his head, and she loops her arms through his. “Didn’t think so. Come on, then. The champagne is calling us.” 

They spend the rest of the reception weaving incredibly elaborate stories of their courtship. Many of the guests are people Sansa already knows in vague passing from school, and she knows the rumormill will be churning over her new relationship, but she’s having an incredible amount of fun -- and, more to the point, realizes she and Jon make a fantastic team. It makes her heart hurt, just a bit. Speaking her fondness of him aloud is as easy as breathing, and she needs to take a break from the deception after the cake cutting.

Jon, of course, finds her. “I was just about to tell Margaery’s grandmother about romantic retreat in the Bear Islands,” he says, and comes to sit next to her. The gazebo outside is wrapped in fairy lights and unfairly romantic.

“You’re fast,” she teases. “We’ve hardly been together for five hours.”

“Five hours is enough to know, I think.” He inches his fingers towards hers. “Don’t you?”

She cuts a look at him, stomach swooping with nerves. There’s a heat in his eyes that could be attributed to the drinks they’ve shared throughout the night, but his hand moves to cover hers then, and she sighs out a quiet, “ _Oh_.”

“I, um. I’ve been meaning to ask you out for months now. Properly.”

“And decided to wait until an actual wedding to sort of do it,” she says, and wiggles her fingers under his.

“I never said I was brave. Or smart.”

She’ll blame the champagne later, if she’ll need to blame anything, and leans in to brush her lips against his in a kiss. “You’re plenty of both,” she says, smiling. “And for what you lack, I’ll have plenty.”


	18. Modern AU - fake dating / Sansa's pregnant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked for: "we are fake engaged because I'm pregnant" au

“Jon, I’m _desperate_.” Sansa clasps her hands together, literally begging her big brother’s best friend to help her out. Reason being: the Stark family get-together is rapidly approaching and she still hasn’t come up with a way to break the news, gently or otherwise, that she is pregnant (several months along now, and big enough that no amount of taffeta, tulle or high-waist cuts will hide it) _and_ that her current condition was the consequences of one stupid, drunken mistake after her split with Harry Hardyng.

So, naturally: Jon Snow.

And Jon, naturally, looks pained _._ "Sansa – you’re asking me to lie. To Robb. Your father. To your entire family. Not only about being _engaged,_ but about being the father of your child.”

She knows this – just as she’s well-versed in Jon’s attachment to ‘honor above all’ mindset that’s been around since their grade school years – but he is literally the only person that she trusts to keep her secret. She places a hand on his forearm, hoping that it’s the right move to make. “I know,” she says. “I _know_. Asking you to do this is a lot. More than a lot. I just… I can’t face everyone like this.”

His gaze dips to her stomach before guiltily bouncing back up to her eyes. She sees the moment Jon begins to consider her proposition, and she schools her expression into a mask of indifference even though her heart is already soaring in relief. “We’ll have to come clean eventually,” he hedges, “and I think we ought to delay telling Robb until we’ve sorted out the details.”

She gives into the relief and throws her arms around his neck. “Thank you, thank you, I promise you won’t regret this,” she says, and when he tentatively hugs her back, she knows she made the right choice too.


	19. Modern AU - Halloween prompt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jonsa + "we’re in costume and i know exactly who you are but pretend i don’t so i have an excuse to make out with you just once"

Sansa knows, deep down, that she should feel bad about what she’s doing. Pretending she has _no idea_ Jon is, well, _Jon_ is a cruel thing to play at -- even crueler that she hooks her finger under the collar of his impressive costume and pulls him in for a kiss, like he’s not special, like he’s just another cute co-ed at this Halloween party. Like she hasn’t been wanting to kiss him for the past six months, ever since they glued the remnants of whatever childhood friendship they had together and she realized he was exactly the type of person she needed in her life. She should feel bad, but she doesn’t.

Instead, she lets the lowlights of the Tyrell McMansion and the crush of partiers sweep her away into the fantasy she usually has when it comes to Jon Snow: He’s not her brother’s best friend. There isn’t a deep well of history between them. She’s not on the cusp of a bad breakup, and she hasn’t been trolling his social media accounts to see if he’s finally pulled the plug on his and Ygritte’s relationship. It’s just the two of them. Her, the Bride of Frankenstein. Him -- well.

“So who _are_ you supposed to be?” she asks after the kiss ends, swaying in his arms to the loud, pulsing bass coming from the speakers. Her lips are tingling and she can’t blame alcohol for the buzz in her veins -- she is stone cold sober.

Jon, for his part, keeps his hands on her waist; a warm, steadying presence that seeps through the fabric of her long white dress. There’s a twist to his mouth she can’t decipher, a furrow between his brows that means he’s thinking something through. “Whoever you need me to be,” he replies, after a long moment.

Sansa tries to smile, or laugh, but she can’t bring herself to do either, even if it’s hilarious in that she’s been caught in the act and called out. He could’ve said anything. Still, it feels more like an agreement than a rebuff and so Sansa dares to move closer. “Ladies’ choice tonight then?” she asks, fingers toying at the curl of hair at the nape of his neck.

“Always,” he replies, thumbs swiping down over her hipbones.

They stay glued together for the rest of the night, trading kisses and ignoring the rest of the party. Sansa knows when the sun breaks over the horizon, whatever Halloween spell she’s cast over them will dissipate -- it’ll have to -- but she leans her head on Jon’s shoulder in the meantime and tries not to think about tomorrow and beyond.


	20. Modern AU - people hitting on oblivious Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> riahchan asked for: Jon gets hit on all the time and is oblivious. Instead of being jealous, Sansa finds it hilarious and maybe even uses it.

Jon sets a frappe in front of Sansa. They’re at their favorite coffee shop, and she’s certain she only ordered an eight-ounce drip. “What’s this?” she asks, more curious than anything else.

“The barista gave it to me. On the house. Said someone returned their order or something,” he says, glancing over his shoulder while Sansa follows his line of sight.

The barista – Trystane – gives them both a wave and a smile; the way his gaze cuts down to Jon’s backside (who’s already turned forward and sat down, utterly oblivious) lets Sansa know the frappe probably wasn’t born of customer dissatisfaction. Her suspicions are confirmed when she turns the frappe and sees a neat phone number written on the side. She nearly snorts. _Of course you wouldn’t realize the cute barista flirting with you!_

Sansa loves Jon. She really, truly does. He is good and sweet and smart, but it literally took her six months of subtle hints and outright flirting before she finally snapped and kissed him first. It’s much of the same for the rest of the world, she thinks. A gorgeous man oblivious to all the attention thrown his way.

“Oh, Jon,” she says, muffling laughter against her hand _._


	21. Fake Dating Popstar AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fic I will never write: the "fake dating popstar AU".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folks, this is a fic amnesty chapter based on a [tumblr meme](http://jonnsansa.tumblr.com/post/153146774088/once-more-with-feeling-for-that-fic-title-thingy) "fics I will never write". There probably will not be any more to this than what's on paper and some not!fic below. So.
> 
> \--
> 
> _sansa is, of course, a tween idol pop singer whose image is reeling from her sudden break-up with reigning ~teen dream prince~ joffrey baratheon._
> 
> _jon snow is the oathcontract-breaking rock star who needs a touch of “good” on his roster if he ever wants to get his career back on track (the label, of course, wanted him to replace his bandmates: sam, edd, tormund and pyp but nobody knows the ~real truth~ behind it)._
> 
> _enter littlefinger and his scheming shenanigans. there’s a little hate in the beginning, miscommunication, but then jon protects sansa from some paps and she maybe starts to thaw on him… and of course the CLIMAX scene is them singing a love ballad duet that is supposed to be ~totally fake~ but it ain’t._
> 
> _it sooooo ain’t._
> 
> _BOOM. money._

“Absolutely not,” Sansa said. She slid the folder away -- the stupid, asinine proposal her manager had sprung on her -- and sat back with a frown. She crossed her arms for good measure. 

Littlefinger wasn't fazed; didn’t even blink, the same, smarmy smile he always wore frozen to his face. “You said you wanted to change your style. You said you wanted to grow up.” He tap-tap-tapped his finger on the table between them. “ _This_ is how you do that.”

She disagreed. Dating some alternative rocker for publicity was something Margaery Tyrell would do-- _has_ done, actually. But the biggest hurdle she’d have to leap over was that none of it would be real. She believed in love. Despite all her heartbreak, and the lyrics she sketched out after an adolescent breakup or two, she really, truly believed in love. Looking at sullen Jon Snow, his admittedly handsome face on the cover of _Lannister,_ she didn’t think she could even pretend to _like_ him.

Still, she asked, “What would he get out of it?”

Littlefinger’s mouth twitched. “You haven’t heard? He broke his contract with Castle Black Studios, and he’s being skewered for it. We’ve signed him, of course, but spin control is needed if we ever want to see platinum sales again.”

Her heart thumped. “So I play the nice girlfriend, and he plays the troubled rocker reformed.”

“And, like magic, both of you are rebranded.”

“How long?" 

He sighed; the same way he always did when he was about to break bad news: _Your demographic is growing up without you_ , or _Dating someone is your only option_. “Six months,” he said, holding up a not-so-reassuring hand when she gaped and began to protest, “maybe a year. We need the public on our side, Sansa, and we can’t afford another Joffrey backlash.”

She glanced away. His words stung, but backlash was truly the only way to describe what had happened post-Joffrey. She was Westeros’ tween pop princess, but _he_ was its reigning prince. He had dumped her with a text message, but she’d been the one painted as the heartbreaker, the traitor. He’d ridden the sympathy wave with his crocodile tears to accolades and awards, and her sales were the lowest they had ever been. She knew contractual relationships happened in the business. It was too convenient for them _not_ to be: Minimal effort for maximum coverage, and zero impact on your actual, real feelings when the inevitable breakup happened. But did she want to play the game? She didn’t trust Littlefinger, not really, but righting her career was in his best interest. He was her manager, after all; his fate tied to hers. And if he believed her image would recover by being seen with Jon Snow, _dating_ Jon Snow, than perhaps it would be smart to consider it. She leaned forward, and slowly pulled the folder back to the edge of the table, skimming the legalese, the binding contract she would find herself tangled in if she said _yes_. 

“We would start with a charity event. No red carpet, something low-key,” Littlefinger began, correctly reading Sansa’s tentative change of heart, “both of you in the same place… a picture together, just talking. No posing.”

“And then?”

“The usual affair. An ‘insider source’ hinting at a budding romance, a handful of events where you both attend separately but leave together, and then a quiet confirmation after some more speculation. A vacation together, maybe a public declaration for the Grammy’s. The rest we’ll play by ear.”

“I want to meet him first,” she negotiated, beginning to think that six months or maybe a year wouldn’t be too bad if all she had to do was act a part, if it meant she’d get what she wanted in the end. A revived fanbase, a sold-out tour, another album. Anything but a hand showing her to the exit door after working so hard for a seat at the table. She could do it. She was good at faking it--the last four months with Joffrey was a testament to that--but she didn’t want to have to pull teeth for it. If Jon Snow wasn’t terrible, she thought, she would say yes. If he was, she would demand Littlefinger find another way.

Littlefinger inclined his head. His smile grew. “Of course. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Three weeks passed before Jon and Sansa’s schedules overlapped. It was enough time that Sansa had almost written off Littlefinger’s proposal as another one of his outlandish schemes, until she checked her phone and found a text message with a time and a place, and an unwarranted wardrobe suggestion: _Casual_ , it read. _White tank top, jeans, black Miu Miu boots._ Her stomach swam as she read the words over and over again, anger crackling under her skin. Another man telling her what to wear, what to do. _Another stupid rule to follow._ She reached into her closet and pulled out her leather jacket. It was the only one she owned. It felt like armor, and reminded her of Arya.

She left her house early to avoid the driver Littlefinger would inevitably send to fetch her. She liked driving herself. Little known fact (one she used for those inane Cosmo articles): She liked cars. It had been a passion of Robb’s, and her father’s, too; a passed down hobby she’d picked up on the periphery and could keep up, since she had the money. But, according to Littlefinger, driving around town all by her lonesome wasn’t good for her brand. She needed to be above it all. Pampered. For a few years, she’d believed him. She squeezed the steering wheel, and turned to thoughts of the upcoming meeting.

She had very few expectations for the set-up, and none of them high. She’d done Jon Snow the courtesy of not looking him up beforehand, but now that she was going in blind, she wished she hadn’t. She’d heard some of his songs, sure -- everyone had, at some point, if they ever tuned into a Top 100 music station -- but she didn’t know him, his story, or the one the media wanted to portray. She thought back to the cover photo she saw nearly a month ago: Jon, arms crossed, angled away but staring straight ahead. He was handsome, but he’d looked nearly tortured. Was that him, or his brand?

Her GPS chimed then, letting her know her destination was soon approaching. She pulled into the parking lot, more than a little bemused over the crunch of gravel under tires. She’d never been to this particular restaurant. In fact, she’d never heard of the place. It was a tiny coffeeshop off the beaten path, catty-corner to a knit and yarn store. Had it been Jon Snow’s choice? Littlefinger’s? Would there be photographers waiting for her? Was this supposed to be the meeting that acted as the starting point, the first breadcrumb that would lead the magazines to the inevitable Jon-Sansa coupling? In the end, none of it mattered. Not really. All of it was a game, and she’d been playing it for so long she wasn't sure she could stop. And if she wanted to play, there wasn't much else to do but roll the die.

She stepped out of the car.


	22. Modern AU - Pregnancy Hormones

Sansa was so angry she could cry… and with a huge, hiccuping breath, the dam that was her restraint splintered, and the tears came. Jon took a half-step forward, and she reached for the only object nearby: a silk pillow. She brandished it at him like she might a knife, which was truly ridiculous -- even in her sobbing state she had to give it that -- which only made her cry all the harder. But she just… couldn’t help it, just as she was helpless to stymie her tears.

“Sansa,” Jon moaned, his face etched with worry, confusion, and bewilderment. “Please, _please_ tell me what’s wrong…”

It was so _stupid,_ really. They had been having a perfectly regular evening. Jon had come home from a long day’s work, and with him, the take-out Sansa had been craving all day. But when she’d opened the brown paper bag and peered inside, it wasn’t the burger she’d asked for. The fury had come on her, hot and sudden, and she’d fled from their living room, the second episode of Gilmore Girls playing in the background. How could she tell him she was sobbing over a _burger?_ She’d sound completely mad!

She waved him off. “N-nothing!”

He proceeded to enter the strike zone, and Sansa gave him a halfhearted _thwack!_ with the pillow before she was scooped up in her husband’s arms. She turned her face into his neck and sobbed, boneless. “It’s the _burger_ ,” she got out, red-faced and embarrassed. “I wanted a double with… pepperjack. You ordered provolone.”

Jon’s arm stiffened around her, and then she felt him shake with silent laughter. “The food? That’s _it._ God, Sansa, I thought I’d poisoned you!” He kissed her brow and reached down to rub the hard bump that was her belly. Six months pregnant now, most days she felt like a blimp, but under his hand she felt like a precious gem. “I’m sorry, love. I know he’s picky.”

She swiped at her eyes. Her anger had melted away as quickly as it had come on, and the rush of emotions left her drained. “I’m so sorry, Jon. These hormones are killing me.”

Jon nudged at the pillow she’d dropped with his toe. “Thankfully all we keep in the bedroom is feather down or they might kill me too.” He brushed her hair behind her ear, and gave her a kiss.


	23. Modern AU - "the Emmy pic"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [based off this picture](http://kinginthenorthjonsnow.tumblr.com/post/152373972201/new-pic-of-sophie-turner-and-kit-harington-at)

“Get closer! Strike a pose!”

The commands came from Jeyne Westerling. When they did not immediately do as she asked, she motioned impatiently for Sansa and Jon to squish together. They obliged. The flash of the camera came next, bright and blinding, and Sansa rocked back… right into Jon. She was a little drunk, and more than a bit unsteady in her pinpoint heels. It was Arya’s graduation night; it felt like all of the north had come out in droves to watch her walk the stage, and they were deep into the afterparty now. _Sansa_ was in deep, too. 

Luckily, Jon was there to brace her; but she had to suppress a shiver as his hand came around to rest on her hip, a huff of surprised breath tickling the hair at her nape. The touch transported her back to a night three months passed. She’d just broken it off with Harry -- for good this time -- and stumbled into Jon at the bar Margaery had dragged her off to to “celebrate.” One thing had led to another, and they’d spent the night having the best sex Sansa had ever had… which then led to three months of pretending it had never happened.

She was tempted to extend the offer of another night. It would be easy to do, she thought. Everyone was on the spectrum of inebriated, if not outright drunk, and she had graciously given her girlhood room up at her family’s estate for a more quiet, private room in the guesthouse out back. No one would notice them gone. No one would even think to _think_ of them together.

Mind made up, she pinned Jon’s hand to her, thumb swiping across his knuckles. She looked over her shoulder at him, and gave him a smile -- it was just the two of them now. “Come back to mine,” she said, cutting straight to the heart of the matter. Though her words were true and steady, her heart beat thunderously in her chest as she waited for his answer...


	24. Leap Year AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Leap Year AU no one asked for.

Jon is just about to lock up when he sees her: a red-haired beauty teetering miserably in the downpour on impractical heels, dragging her suitcase (which he’s sure was a very posh and on-trend, before the storm got to it and her) towards his inn. He has half a mind to shutter up anyway, but they need the money (they _always_ need the money), and if a woman like her is desperate enough to bunk down in a place like The Old Crow, well, he’s not going to turn her away. If she can pay.

“Do you have a phone?” is the first question she asks, the door slamming shut behind her against a heavy gust of wind. She’s dripping water on the floor, and shivering. She wiggles the cellphone in her hand. It looks brand new. “The service here is…”

Jon sighs inwardly. He knows all about the shit service in the North. It’s the one and only reason he keeps the landline in the back. “Yeah,” he says, and points her to the old, plastic rotary by the toilets. “International is expensive, so -- keep it short.”

The smile on her face tightens into more of a _fuck you_ scowl, but she goes to make her call before he can stumble his way through an apology. He blames all the years of living up north with the same rough folk for his brusqueness.

Jon busies himself by tidying up. He catches bits and pieces of the woman’s conversation as he goes to and from the backroom and the bar, though he doesn’t mean to listen in -- it’s just near impossible not to. The Crow is quiet tonight, its usual bunch of lively patrons sent on their way before the storm set in, and he’ll admit to being at least a _little_ curious. She’s clearly not a local, and the Wall isn’t a typical vacation destination. _So what is she doing all the way out here?_ He sets the bin of dishes on the counter with a clatter. _Doesn’t matter._ It really doesn’t, because he doesn’t _care_.

He gets lost in unpacking the glassware, thoughts turned to bills and bills and more bills past due. He inherited the place from Aemon before he passed, and tried running it with Sam -- but then Ygritte happened… and Gilly and Little Sam came along… and now it’s just him, with Sam off studying at the Citadel at his behest.

“I’ll come back,” Sam promised, “and we’ll fix the place right up. You’ll see.”

He believes Sam means to do it too, but well-meaning dreams can only get people so far.

When he turns around next, the woman is sitting at the bar. And he realizes quickly that she looks… _miserable_. “Um… phone call went well?”

She cuts him a mild glare. “Are you being purposefully daft, or are your manners just that poor?”

“Must be my Northern hospitality,” he retorts, mildly amused despite her harsh words. He’s pleased to see that her frown softens, too. “D’you need a room?”

“There’s nowhere else,” she says, which is true, if a little insulting. “I could use a drink, too.” 

He hesitates for a second. He has ledgers to balance once he’s sent her squarely off to her room and truly can’t afford to put them off any longer if he wants a decent night’s sleep, but -- one drink. He can pour one drink. He’ll just add it to her tab. _Room, phone bill, drink._ “What’ll it be?” 

She laughs a little, though it’s devoid of humor. “I don’t care. Something strong.”

He chooses his best whiskey, figures he might as well, and watches as she takes a subtle sniff and then a sip. She tips her glass to him afterwards. “Not half terrible,” she says. “So, barkeep, can I get a name?”

“Jon.” 

“ _Jon_. I’m Sansa.”

He inclines his head.

She sighs after a long moment. “Aren’t you supposed to… I don’t know, ask me why I’m here?”

“I’m a bartender. I tend bar.” He wipes down the bar-top. “Not so good at talking, actually.” 

“I never would’ve guessed,” she says, but there’s an upturn to her mouth that’s more teasing than anything, and he huffs a reluctant laugh.

“Alright, _Sansa._ I’ll bite. What brings you all the way north?”

She knocks the rest of her drink back, like she can’t bear to repeat her harrowing tale without a fair bit of liquid courage. “It’s -- kind of a silly story, actually. I’m not even supposed to be _here._ I meant to go home. That is, to Winterfell. For my grandfather’s wedding band… I was -- I _am_ going to propose to my boyfriend in three days.”

“Three days…?”

“Maiden’s Day. It’s an old tradition, you see. Where women propose instead of men.” She sinks in on herself a bit. “Oh, it sounds so _archaic_ and gross when I say it like that.” 

“A little. Did you get the ring, then?”

She nods slowly. “I did, but there’s no way I can get to King’s Landing in time. All trains, buses, and planes have been stopped due to unsafe weather conditions.” She recites the last bit in a low-pitched voice, as if repeating the news from someone else. Her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip. “You wouldn’t happen to know a taxi service that might be willing to give it a go?”

_You have a car_ , Jon thinks. _You could drive her._

“I can pay,” Sansa adds.

He reaches out to grip the edge of the bar, hangs his head down for a moment. The thing is -- Jon might not be the friendliest guy on this side of Westeros, but he’s always had a soft spot for those in need. It was how he and Sam became friends in the first place, really. And, though Sansa’s story is a little ridiculous, Jon has to admit… deep down, he’s a hopeless romantic, too. He was engaged once. He remembers the giddiness in the asking, his happiness and Ygritte’s smile, and maybe -- maybe he can do something right tonight. “I’ll do it,” he blurts out before he can change his mind.

“Oh, no! I didn’t mean for you--” Sansa jumps in quickly, and Jon holds his hand up.

“You said you could pay,” he says, “and I said I’d do it.” 

Whatever bit of vulnerability Sansa showed him before shutters away in a flash. She raises her chin slightly and pulls her shoulders back. “Five hundred stags.”

“A thousand,” he counters.

“A _thousand?”_

He shrugs at her, and he watches her think it through. It’s not an outrageous sum, truth be told, and it’s not long before Sansa reaches out with a well-manicured hand to shake on the terms.

“A thousand it is,” Sansa says.

 

 

(It’s not until later, when Jon shows her to the tiny, closet-sized room he’s rented her for the night that she admits she would’ve happily paid twice his asking price – the first, but not the last time Jon Snow severely underestimates Sansa Stark.)


	25. Magazine Style - romcom actors au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two leads in a romcom fall in love AU.

 

**Sansa Stark and Jon Snow, _Jenny’s Song_**

 

> Is there an off-screen romance brewing for two of the hottest young actors in Westeros? Time will tell, but sources say yes! The pair have reportedly been linked together since filming wrapped on _Jenny’s Song_.
> 
> “Their on-screen chemistry was noticeable from day one,” a source close to the couple tells us. “When you’re with someone for months on end, pretending to fall in love… well, sometimes life imitates art.”
> 
> Early buzz is calling Jon Snow’s performance as Erik a powerful homage to his late father, silverscreen legend Rhaegar Targaryen. Some critics have lauded Sansa’s Jenny as a definite contender for lead actress this awards season.
> 
> With reviews like that, how could these two go wrong? Come on, Jonsa, we’re rooting for you! 

_Jenny’s Song_ is coming to theaters later this year.


	26. deaf!sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU - "one of them is deaf and the other learns sign language for them au"

It takes Jon three weeks to gather the courage to talk to Sansa.

They first met – well, first shared a table – at the local coffee shop. He’d just moved to the city and a friend had recommended the Queen’s Cup as a local favorite; a true fact, as the place had been packed full up, an endless sea of taken tables as he’d scanned the room after getting his mocha. Sansa had been nice enough to wave him to the lone empty seat at her table, and he decided to stay because he needed the Wi-Fi connection. (And, alright, he’ll admit it: the cute redhead with the nice smile was an added bonus).

Of course, he’d goofed it all up in about two seconds of sitting down.

“Thanks for saving me. I’m Jon,” he said. Sansa stared, he stared, he repeated himself dumbly, and then she brushed her hair back over her ears to reveal hearing aids.

There probably wasn’t a more socially embarrassing interaction Jon could name off the top of his head that matched the moment nor his profuse, stuttering apology she couldn’t hear, except for maybe the time he’d stumbled out of his dorm room in a snowstorm in only his underwear after the fire alarm had gone off in his third year. He’d needed to borrow Val’s sweater that night, and he’d forever more been dubbed Jon Snipples.

Eventually, after a handful of more apologies and furious blushing, he and Sansa exchanged a few words via a slip of paper wherein he learned her name, that she was a grad student at Queenscrown, and she didn’t mind sharing a table with him. She could lip read a little if he went slow and faced forward. Her handwriting was loopy and adorable next to his scratchy letters, and he left the shop wondering if he’d ever seen Sansa again. 

It had been years since he fell smitten with someone so quickly – and never over a few sentences written down and passed between one another with awkward smiles – and the idea to learn Westerosi Sign Language popped into his mind as soon as he got back to his apartment. He didn’t even know if Sansa frequented the Queen’s Cup, or if she thought he was a complete creep, but he fell down the rabbit hole learning the alphabet, how to fingerspell, and some very short, simple sentences that first night. It turned out Sansa _was_ a regular to the shop, and more often than not invited him to sit with her even if the place was deserted, and it all but solidified his resolve to learn WSL.

The day before he plans to _attempt_ to talk to Sansa, he subjects Sam to a solid hour of practice.

“This is right romantic of you, Jon,” Sam says, “but I still can’t give you feedback. You know that, right? I know the basics, but I’m not even close to proficient. Why don’t you take a class at the community college?”

“I already looked.”

“And?” 

“And they’re not offering it right now. I know the internet isn’t where I should be getting my education, but it’s all I’ve got. _You’re_ all I’ve got.”

He sighs. “The things I do for you, Snipples.”

The next day, Jon heads to the Cup at his usual time and orders his usual drink – Sansa is already seated at her (their?) usual table by the hearth in the back. She gives him a tiny wave as he approaches and he swallows around the lump in his throat, nerves floating in his stomach, and says _hello._

Her eyes widen and, for a second, Jon is sure he’s just told her to go to hell, but surely that can’t be right (right?). He sits down. “I wanted to learn WSL,” he says, slowly fingerspelling along just like he practiced, “so we could talk.”

It takes a moment to get through it all but by the end of it, Sansa’s shocked looked has transformed into a bright grin, and Jon can’t stop smiling either.

 _Hi, I’m Sansa,_ she signs, first spelling her name out slowly and then replacing it with the sign for her name.

“Nice to meet you,” he says.


	27. modern AU + accidental baby acquisition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU + accidental baby acquisition

They find the baby in the godswood.

It is, truth be told, kind of _creepy._ Not the baby. Well -- okay, if Sansa is being honest, the baby is a little creepy, if only because the baby is _perfect._ Bright green eyes, a head of a soft golden curls, and plump rosy cheeks and chubby little arms and legs and toes.

No, the creepy factor is that they found the baby in a weirwood-woven basket, sleeping peacefully on a bed of fresh moss under the watchful, weeping eyes of the heart tree. 

“And it was wearing a _crown_ ,” Arya says, arms crossed fitfully over her chest. “You need to stop forgetting to mention the damned _crown._ ”

Sansa glances up from the crib. They found Rickon’s old bed in the attic and brought it down to the family room, which is where they placed the baby and then proceeded to freak out. “The baby’s outfit is a bit secondary to the fact that… _it…_ is even here at all,” she says. _The baby_ , she despairs. How is this the state of their lives? “When did Jon say he’d be here?”

Arya shrugs, a restless, angry movement to match her nervous pacing. “He didn’t,” she says. She’s been looking everywhere but the crib, gaze skittering around the room. 

Sansa, on the other hand, hasn’t been able to tear her eyes away. She grew up on stories of faerie babes and the children of the forest. Everyone in Westeros did. Unlike southern sentiment, however, northern superstition believed visits from these mystical beings to be a sign of favor from the old gods -- but right now, she’s not sure which side she’s on.

She’s the one who found the baby. She’s the one who woke up early and pestered Arya into joining her on a morning stroll through Winterfell’s forest. She’s the one who walked directly to the hot springs instead of the glass gardens. Looking back, it feels like something led her there.

Of course, she could be looking way too deep into it. There is a very real chance some asshole decided to leave their baby in the woods instead of a hospital or fire station. Maybe she has some amazing abandoned baby instincts. The only thing she knows for sure is that she doesn’t know what else to do. She feels… she feels _terrible._ Heartache and worry and fear and a thousand other things swirling around her stomach.

Her fingers tighten on the rail of the crib. The wood is smooth to the touch, old but sturdy. “It’ll be okay,” she says, more to herself than her sister. They already called the police and then Jon Snow, who is a bonafide firefighter and definitely more well-equipped to handle emergencies than them; plus, both she and Arya babysat Bran and Rickon growing up and her brothers were far more rambunctious than the tiny, quiet baby in the crib. What could possibly go wrong?

Of course, that’s when the baby blinks its gorgeous eyes open… and then screws them shut to let loose a very unhappy lungful.

 

-

 

A time later, Sansa hears tires roll up through the gravel and the distinct squeal of Jon’s truck’s brakes. Arya disappeared when the baby started crying -- citing, “Oh, hell no,” as her reason for doing so -- and so Sansa goes to the foyer with an armful of screaming baby to greet him. 

“You weren’t joking,” is the first thing he says when she elbows the front door open.

She nearly says _no shit_ before she remembers hey, she’s holding a child and, just in case she’s been made baby caretaker through the will of the gods, she _probably_ shouldn’t swear. Too much more, at least. She might’ve let a few cuss words fly freely in the very beginning, sorry not sorry, please don’t smite me _._ “Don’t start with me, Snow.”

He shakes his head a little. “Right, no -- have you, um, done the usual checks?”

She fixes him with a bewildered look. “Believe it or not, but I don’t _usually_ find babies on my porch.” 

“Right,” he breathes and, surprisingly, reaches out to take the baby from Sansa’s arms. And, even more surprisingly, as soon as Jon settles the squirming baby in the crook of his elbow, the crying stops. He wiggles his index finger against its cheek and _smiles_. “I brought some stuff from the station. Diapers and formula and the like.” 

“Oh.” Sansa blinks at him in amazement. “Smart.”

_Brilliant comment, Sansa,_ she scolds herself, feeling very strange and flustered, looking at Jon cradling the baby and _emoting_. She makes like Arya and flees. Only to Jon’s truck and to get the provisions, but fleeing all the same. 

The rest of the morning passes in a blur: the baby is declared healthy, and a girl. Arya finally returns from her hiding place with news from CPS -- an accident in the pass between the winter towns and Winterfell means it’ll take the agents a fair bit to get up to them and can they handle caring for the child just a little longer? They all agree, because they’re not monsters, and Arya leaves again; this time taking Jon’s truck to the store because they really aren’t prepared for prolonged babysitting.

By the end of the day, Sansa is exhausted. And all she’s done is hover nervously at the edge of the room while Jon did most of the work. “You’re good at this,” she says. “Like, I am impressed.”

“Thanks. I mean, I did spend a few years running after you Starks back in the day. She’s easy when compared.”

“I was well-behaved,” she reminds him. Eleven-year-old Sansa had a horrendous crush on too many of Robb’s friends growing up, including the dark and broody Jon Snow, and her feelings mostly manifested in being entirely too prim and proper. Looking at Jon now -- well, she can’t say the crush has completely died. He’s always been good-looking. Years and a scruffy beard only made him more so.

“Aye, you were.”

She blinks out of her mild stupor, wondering when she’d gotten so close to Jon on the couch. He doesn’t seem to notice when she leans back.

The baby is cuddled up on his chest, asleep again after several hours of playing with Rickon’s old toys. It’s almost too easy to forget that they still have no idea where the baby came from, that she doesn’t really belong here with them. Not that it matters, she thinks. Old Nan’s stories and Sansa’s initial trepidation aside, the baby is perfectly innocent. 

Of course, that’s when a howling gust of wind batters against the windows and Arya skids into the living room, eyes wide and dark hair covered in rapidly melting flakes of--

“ _Snow_ ,” Arya gasps out. “It’s _snowing._ ”

Sansa pops up from her seat and hurries to the window where, yes, grey clouds have gathered in the formerly blue skies and the green of Winterfell’s grounds are rapidly covered in a blanket of white. She shivers. It’s summer. It hasn’t snowed in northern summers in hundreds of years, if not more more. 

She turns around, instinct more than logic telling her that all the wackiness has everything to do with the baby. “Jon, Arya, get your coats,” she commands. They’re taking a trip to the heart tree. 


	28. Stardust AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stardust AU + "I don’t know what I did to deserve you"

“ _Eugh,_ what _is_ that smell?” 

Jon grinds his teeth together. “That would be the bog,” he replies stiffly, wondering not for the tenth time tonight if this journey would be well and truly worth the trouble. After all, it was Maester Aemon who sent him far away and across the wall to chase after a star that tumbled from the night’s sky.

_Jon_ didn’t want to go. No, in fact he was perfectly happy cobbling shoes and hammering nails and any other menial task the old maester gave him to do – work that got his mind off the fact that there wasn’t much place at all for a boy named Snow at Castle Black, or anywhere else in the world.

But then, one night, as he was tending to the books, he witnessed a shooting star from the balcony window. It startled him so thoroughly he scratched a solid, inky line through the month’s ledger.

“What is it, my boy?” Aemon asked. Though his eyes had dulled to a rheumy blue over the years, his hearing was exceptional.

“A star,” Jon said, then squinted further. A fiery trail followed the sparkling, twinkling light. What was _odd,_ however, was its path: it was flying vertically. It shot down and down towards the horizon and landed with a soundless, bright burst of light. He blinked. He’d been watching the constellations for as long as he’d been Aemon’s attendant – four years, give or take – and he’d seen comets and shooting stars and all sorts of oddities, but never a fallen star.

“Well?” Aemon asked gently.

_Oh, right_ , Jon thought and then described aloud what he’d seen.

Aemon sat quietly, fingers steepled together, for a long moment. Then, he whipped his thick blankets aside and gestured for Jon to help him upright. “Come, Jon,” he said, “I will explain everything, but first you must go retrieve that star.”

“ _Retrieve?_ ” Though Aemon had asked Jon to help him up and around, it was Jon who had to hurry after him as he ascended the tower steps and unlocked a thin door down a rarely used hallway. “Maester Aemon, I don’t–” A cloak was thrust into his arms – “–understand–” then a rucksack – “what explanation do I need–”

“Find her, Jon. Time is of the essence,” was the last thing Maestor Aemon told him, right before Jon was hustled back down the tower steps, out the front door and through the gates, and onto a journey he didn’t understand and wanted no part of. All quick enough that he forgot that Aemon had referred to the star as _her._

Of course, at the time, Jon didn’t know why Aemon – already prone to telling him tales of dreams and magic and girls with blue flowers in their hair – was so obsessed with a tiny speck of space rock.

That was, of course, until he stumbled upon _Sansa._

Or: “The _North_ star, to be precise,” as she put it so eloquently when they met. He found her sitting in a smoking crater, the surrounding rock melted and still hot to the touch as he clambered down to help her out.

Not that she was grateful for his assistance. Not one bit.

A tiny voice whispers that perhaps the _magical chain_ he tied around her wrist to prevent her from escaping his reluctant clutches might have something to do with it, but he stomps his conscience into submission.

Besides, every time he begins to convince himself to do the noble thing and let her go, she sighs behind him, a haughty noise that grates on his nerves like nothing he’s ever known, and he dips even further into stubborn defiance.

“Why are we taking the bog route?” she asks, as if he didn’t explain to her exactly why when they reached the sign a league or two back.

“Because it’s a shortcut,” he replies, “and I’m on a timeline.” He isn’t, but she doesn’t need to know that. It just didn’t take him very long to decide that the sooner he gets Sansa to Maester Aemon, the sooner he’d be free of her… except for the fact that she’d be in Castle Black _with him._ He frowns. 

“We could just part ways right here,” she says. “I’ll go back to a place that _doesn’t_ smell like a bog, and you can continue on your way since the stench clearly doesn’t bother you one bit.”

“I told you–”

“Yes, that you need to show me off to Maester Aemon and if you don’t– well, actually, you’ve never given me a single compelling reason why I should go with you.” She yanks on the chain, but it only grows longer. “You’ve just _kidnapped_ me.”

He flushes. “He didn’t really tell me why,” he mumbles, “but he’s never wrong.”

Sansa glares at the back of Jon’s curly-haired head and says, “Well, that settles the matter, doesn’t it?” 

Jon glares at the rickety, crisscrossing bridge that keeps them above the swampy waters below in retaliation. _I don’t know what I did to deserve you,_ he thinks and smartly keeps the thought to himself; he hasn’t known Sansa very long at all but he knows nothing good would come from saying those words aloud.

Instead, they both stew silently, neither of them thinking particularly flattering thoughts of their present company, and plod along.


	29. Running away to Essos AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Running away together" + escaping to Essos AU

The market was bustling. Shouts of merchants and patrons alike filled the balmy afternoon, languages from across the Free Cities traded along with the wares; the strong smell of spices, fish, salt and smoke hung heavy in the air.

A shipment of exotic animals had arrived the night previous, and Sansa carefully navigated her way around the sea of children that had gathered around the elephant pen. It was all too easy to be swept away in the river of bodies that flowed through the port city if you let it, dropped off in some alley or an unsavory district, but she had no such trouble today. Hadn’t, if she was being honest, in a very long time. Today she took her usual route through the stalls, nodding here and there to familiar faces, some friendly, most not.

Life among the Volantenes was good. Different, yes, but more importantly: safe. As safe as life could ever be for another lost daughter of Eddard Stark, poisoner of known royal bastard and dead king, alleged sorceress, and whatever other madness that had been stitched to her name since she’d fled Westeros.

She was nothing if not adaptive, in both rumor and in life. She’d learned to bend, not break – and here, in lands so far from her home, she’d started to thrive. She’d found work and kept a home all her own. She’d learned the language and observed the culture. She’d dyed her hair, lightening it with creams that burned her scalp, and wore the loose-fitting garments that befit a woman of her station, as well as the climate. Even if spies were looking, she was certain they would pass her over without a second look.

Here, she was a free woman. Here, it was easy to forget what had come before. But the brief taste of freedom always turned bitter, for she was not entirely alone. No matter where she walked – along the Rhoyne in view of the Summer Sea or under the stone arches made from dragonfire – her feet always carried her back to Jon Snow and memories, just as they did today.

The home she shared with Jon was nothing compared to Winterfell or the Red Keep or the Vale. They had no Great Hall and kept no servants. Instead, they did all the housework themselves in the narrow, indistinct rowhouse wedged up against all the others. Their only good fortune was the cool sea breeze that blew through the streets to sweep away the stifling heat and the stench.

She still remembered looking at it, her arm looped through Jon’s, so many moon turns ago. She’d been horrified and relieved, all at once. _Surely no one will look for Sansa Stark in a dank alleyway next to grifters and sellswords_ , she’d thought. Thus far, no one had.

She ascended the steps and unlatched the door. Jon sat scribbling over a length of parchment in their small sitting room, and, not for the first time, Sansa realized Volantis hadn’t changed only her. Jon was just as prone to bouts of brooding as he’d always been, but the man who’d lived his life as a strict adherent to honor had died at the Wall. He’d been the one to suggest sailing across the sea, the one to find work when Sansa had been too sick and melancholic to do much more than stare at the sand-colored walls.

He glanced up from his work, quill poised in hand. “Market went well?”

She set her haul atop their cramped table; some fabric, food, and the ink Jon had asked for a sennight before. “Well enough,” she replied. “It’s getting colder.”

“Still hotter than any place has a right to be.”

The word on the wind was that winter had come to Westeros, and would soon travel to Essos – news she wasn’t quite sure would be wise to pass on. A part of her feared the charade they were playing would crumble at the word _winter._ Another part of her feared it would not. Happy as she was, Volantis was not where she belonged.

She plucked the ceramic inkwell from her basket and added it to the stack atop Jon’s corner, and did not think at all of Winterfell and snow and everything she missed.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to send me prompts over at [my tumblr](http://jonnsansa.tumblr.com/) if ya dig it.


End file.
